


Synthetic V: CELL

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rape, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: bad cops take the boys... but Dean can play that game. The trouble is, Sammy has to watch...





	

Synthetic V: CELL  
Kitty Fisher

He wakes to the soft, unmistakable resonance of flesh hitting flesh. For a strange, weirded-out moment he wonders why he can’t feel it in his own body. Then he hears a twisting, keening sound that he just knows is Sam, and the knowing brings him out of half-consciousness hard and fast, with adrenaline ripping into his bloodstream.

He’s on his side, lying on a hard floor. Eyes cracking open, he blinks past the pounding in his head to see a square room: stained gray walls, door, a table and chair and a D-ring embedded in the ceiling. Sam’s hanging from it by a chain looped around his cuffed hands, blood streaming from his nose, booted feet jerking back and forth, scraping marks into the floor as two men lay into his body. It’s the sound that woke Dean, fist on flesh, and his skin crawls, the visuals adding nothing apart from fuel to a rage that almost blinds him.

The men are in uniform. Khaki and brown. Sheriffs. Cops. Fuckers either way.

Shifting slightly, he flexes his arms, tugging on them where they’re bound behind his back, feeling metal tight against flesh and bone. He can visualize the handcuffs - pair to the ones making a punching bag of Sam - and he knows he can’t get out of them without giving away the fact he’s awake. And no way are the cops leaving anytime soon; they’re having way too much fun.

One of them, the thinner one, leans pauses to wipe sweat from his face. He’s chewing gum; it clicks as he steps in to stroke a hand down Sam’s belly. Rage slams like a tidal surge into Dean’s brain, and he’s pulling hard on the metal that binds him, kicking his boot heels against the floor. “Hey, motherfuckers!”

Which at least makes them turn.

Cops. Dean bares his teeth at them as they saunter over. One he recognizes with a jolt: the man from the bar. And yep, the fifty pounds excess weight is fat, but hell, there’s a mass of muscle underneath the layers piled on by beer and greasy food. In a fair fight, Dean thinks he might just take him. Here? Well, here it doesn’t look like _fair_ is really an issue. But Dean’s going to take him anyway. It’s just a matter of time – and working out how.

Dean glares at them, and then glances past, just for a moment at where Sam hangs, head down, panting for breath. Like Dean, he’s still fully clothed, though his shirt’s pulled high, baring his belly and hip-bones where his pants dip low. Damp straggles of hair are falling over his face, but Dean can just see the dazed lack of focus in his eyes. Dean remembers the scream and wonders what they did; wonders if he can kill both of the shits, bury the bodies and get away with it.

“So, _officers_ , guess this is what you get for a parking violation ‘round here...”

The fat one, thick neck red with exertion (and it’s too much to hope the asshole’ll up and have a seizure real soon) looks at his partner, who’s lean, with cord-like muscles. Beside his partner he looks skinny, but he’s not and he’s the one with that glint in his eye that says he’s really getting off on this – which is all Dean needs to know. He twists in his bonds, squirming on the concrete floor like a piece of live bait just begging for the hook. Shit, he’s played perverts like this for years, and if he can get this right? Then he knows how to make them the happiest good ol’ boys in Tennessee.

As long as he can make them forget Sam, well, nothing much else counts.

“Hello, cocksucker.” Skinny-cop delivers a boot into Dean’s side. “Thought you were never gonna wake up and join the party.”

“I didn’t get the invite, must’ve got lost in the mail.” He coughs on the words, air struggling into his lungs. The same boot shoves into his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, arms trapped painfully under his body. He looks up. The two men loom over him grinning, their eyes bright with anticipation. Both of them are in uniform; sleeves rolled up because they’re working so hard, but with their equipment and utility belts piled on the table. “Maybe you should try askin’ next time, guys?”

Fatboy squats down. There’s a line of blood splatters on his shirt. Dean just smiles, sweet as a peach just waiting to be picked.

“We don’t ask, faggot. Case you hadn’t noticed, we’re the law round here.”

“Well, I can see that, officer. I was just wondering what our offense was.”

“Well…” Fatboy drawls the word, glances up with a sly smile at his partner. “We can start with lewd behavior. Then I guess we move on to impersonating an officer of the law, and yeah, there’s all those fake credit cards in your wallet. There’s some really long-term stuff there, pretty.”

“Would you believe me if I say I can explain?” Dean looks between them, one to the other, and it’s so difficult to do innocent while you’re looking at two guys who clearly couldn’t give a rat’s ass either way, but hell, he has to play them and just hope he’s still good enough.

“Nope. I heard what you and your _friend_ were up to.” He grabs Dean’s jaw, squeezing tight. “Saw your boots sticking out under the door. And boy, looking at you now? Well, you sure have one pretty mouth – guess your buddy there just couldn’t resist.”

Skinny makes a noise - impatience maybe - and Dean flicks his eyes up. The man’s staring across at Sam. There’s a bulge in his pants. Maybe it’s the blood - or just the way Sam’s moaning slightly – but Skinny’s chewing gum like there’s no tomorrow and he starts to move away. “Ted, you like talking way too much, I’m taking the other one.”

Sweat’s sticking Dean’s shirt to his back. Fuck. Understanding clicks into place - innocent was the wrong play. The fuckers want their prey live, and that’s it. No subtlety needed, just availability. With cold sweat clammy between his shoulderblades, Dean sees it clear: the way out of this. Twisting his jaw out of Fatboy’s grip he snarls upwards. “Hey, dickbreath, you want to play? Try me.”

This only gets him a slap which makes his head ring. But Skinny’s focus is back, and Sam’s safe for another few minutes as a boot slams into Dean a few times. When Dean opens his eyes, he looks up and Skinny’s grinning. “You’re nothing but pussy. Understand?”

The boot taps his hip. Dean grunts.

“I asked you a question, pretty! You gonna answer me?”

“Yeah.” No pain, no gain. Dean jerks his knees up, wrists grinding in the cuffs as his weight rocks back and he kicks up, boots slamming hard into flesh. Even though he misses his target, it’s enough to knock Skinny off-balance and he goes down, crashing into the floor with a shout. Panting, Dean scrambles sideways, half on his feet before Fatboy gets the gist. But, hell, that fifty pounds counts and Dean groans as he slams down, ground into the floor by weight and outrage.

“The little shit!”

There’s a knee in his back, and Fatboy leans into him until Dean wonders if his spine’ll just snap. Through bright crimson pain he spits out taunting words, “Yeah, get taken down by a guy in cuffs? Yeah, fucking tough guys, the pair of you!” He opens his mouth to taunt them some more, but Fatboy grabs the cuffs and jerks his arms up, the wrench a pure agony that takes breath and air and intention.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Man, he’s shutting up. Pressed tight to concrete he groans, hating the sound, knowing it’s what they want, knowing it’s the key. Pain and a little fight. Submission with kick.

Blocking the pain, he shifts. Spits blood from a lip that’s broken open and filled his mouth with the taste of copper. “Assholes.”

They flip him over, pull him up against the wall and he grins at them, wild as he’s ever been.

Skinny’s got his baton out; holding it like it’s an extension of his dick. There’s a bruise forming on his cheek. Dean stares him in the eye, and knows the instant when his challenge is accepted.

“Get the cuffs off me. Whatever you want, you’ve got it.” Dean winces as the baton pokes hard, just under his ribs. “I’m good. Fighting or fucking.”

Heat burning in his eyes, Skinny takes a step closer, and they may as well be alone. “What about getting fucked, pretty?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He drawls the word and lets his lower lip drop the smallest amount, so it looks full, the split already swelling, warmth a trickle down his chin. Yeah, fucking asshole sadist. Dean has him, right there. All he has to do now is survive the experience. “Whatever you want. And in exchange? You let us go – no questions.”

The cops exchange a glance.

Dean relaxes into the wall. Slutty boy, hips canted forward - he can do this in his sleep. “Come on, guys, what you got?”

Skinny nods once and Fatboy steps away. The baton slides under Dean’s shirt tails and lifts them; the rubber tip scraping skin as it slides up, baring his belly. “Everything we want, sugar-pie, or the deal’s off. And I’m real hard to please. Takes a few turns around the block, you see what I mean?”

“Sure.” Dean keeps eye contact, even when the baton rubs down between his legs and he spreads for it - the move enough to make both cops almost start pawing the ground.

“Turn around.” The baton shifts away and Dean, without hesitation, turns to face the wall, swallowing hard, expecting pain but, instead, he feels fingers touching his wrists and the cuffs being unlocked, then roughly peeled away from his skin. He bites down on his tongue, close to offering up a prayer in thanks as his arms fall forward.

With hands that are big and callused, between them the cops strip his jacket, shirt and undershirt away, leaving him standing against the wall, and despite the close, stuffy heat of the room goosebumps rise in swathes on his skin.

The baton slaps his arm. “Turn back.”

He does. Eyes hard, he looks at them, gauging them in turn as they check out his body. So, Fatboy just wants a blowjob he doesn’t have to pay for. But Skinny? He wants ass. And blood – more blood than he’s had before, and Dean nods to himself, wondering if there are girls in this town who hide when the sheriffs’ car drives past.

Something shows in his eyes, something he’s not quite fast enough to hide, and Skinny frowns, ramming the baton under Dean’s chin, forcing his head back into the wall. “Get your zipper, boy.”  
“Please?”

The man’s teeth bare in a feral grin. “Yeah, as if.”

“Just checking.”

“Joker. Just do it.”

He does. And no matter that this is something he’s been doing since he was thirteen, it still makes his stomach knot. But, man, their faces. Lust and heat and all things he can play with. Use. Fly wide open, he lets his hands drop to his sides. “So, it’s a deal?”

“Yeah. What we want – anything at all. And when we’re done - and only then you understand, pretty - you get out of jail free.”

Free? Motherfuckers. “Got it.” Dean nods amiably, like they’re discussing the weather. “And my friend stays out of it. Or there’s no deal.”

Another look between them, and this is the clincher, because there is no way on God’s earth that they need to do any of this. Anything that Dean wants. He just hopes that greed will win. Greed for his body, for having a willing victim - for a new twist on an old experience.

“Dean…?”

Aw, shit no. He looks across at his brother, sees the clouded gaze staring back at him. Wonders how long he’s been conscious.

Skinny looks across, and there’s lust flickering in his eyes. Dean slams a palm flat against the wall, the sound sharp enough to make him look back. “Hey! The deal’s done. Leave him out of this!”

“Dean, don’t…”

“Man, just shut up!”

“Both of you shut up!” Skinny slams the baton tip into Dean’s side, jackknifing him forward while a shove drops him to his knees, gasping. “You, use that mouth for something other than jawing.” He shoves his groin into Dean’s face, grinding it into cloth and zipper and the length of hard cock under fabric, until Dean’s squirming and the bastard’s laughing. “Yeah, like that, oh yeah...”

Squirming as the cop just humps his face, Dean wills hard, with everything that’s in him, for Sam to just pass out again. Anything other than to have those eyes watching him, judging him. Hell, as if there’s a better way. He glances up, wincing even before he meets Sam’s eyes and sees the horror there, horror that hurts far more than the hands digging into his scalp, or the abrasions on his face.

“Little fucker…” There’s breathy, limitless lust in Skinny’s voice, and his hand grips Dean’s head, wrenching it so he’s staring forward, held suddenly at arm’s length. It takes a moment to refocus. There’s blood smeared on the uniform pants. His own blood. Dean swallows helplessly as, one-handed, the bastard unzips, baring pale blue shorts and a cock-head already poking its way up and out.

Dean flinches when a big, thickly fleshed hand strokes his face. Fatboy, behind him, getting in on the act. His fingers stink of cheap gun oil and fast food. Yeah, just dandy, Dean thinks, yeah, he’s always wanted to be the filling in a cop sandwich. Breathing out hard through his nose, he gives up on thinking and lets himself run on instinct, opening up when he has to, licking and sucking like a good whore, even when the baton is laced behind his head and used as leverage. He’s a mouth, a throat, that’s it, nothing else is required because Skinny’s getting off on forcing him. It’s cool. He can deal. And there’s no surprise either when Fatboy kneels behind him, hands tugging at Dean’s jeans, big fingers pawing him into place, panting as he gets his own dick ready, lining it up, spitting, grunting and finally just shoving it in.

Pain spikes upwards, vertebra by vertebra, slicing up Dean’s spine and his hands are flailing at air, until Fatboy just gathers them in, holds them tight into the small of his back. He can hear Sam calling his name, but the sound’s distant. Air and pain are rifling through him, and he’s nothing now. He can’t be what Sam sees. Can’t think of himself. Of self. There’s only room in him to be, because if he thinks about Sam sobbing, or about how he looks, stuffed and fucked and skewered, he’ll fall to pieces, and he needs to hold it all in long enough for this to work, but, it’s all close to being too much.

Then, at last, Fatboy starts to come, and Dean almost offers a prayer of thanks because Skinny is too, both of them getting off fast, their tiny cop brains seeing this as the appetizer… but Dean’s done with being dinner. And he’s already thinking of dessert.

When the cock in his ass pulls away, he bites down, hard. The scream is so shrill he has a momentary hope that he’s done a Bobbitt on the fucker, but there’s only blood in his mouth, and he can’t gloat, because he has to move, and his pants are around his ankles so all he can do is turn, falling onto his back and kicking up, both feet slamming into Fatboy’s face and spreading it into roadkill.

Somehow he grabs his pants, pulls them up and stumbles to his feet, fist pounding. Hammering the bastard down, again and again while rage whites-out the room and it’s only when Sam’s screaming at him that Dean turns, and sees Fatboy, pistol in hand, aiming unsteadily through the blood streaming down his face. With all the time in the world, Dean takes him down, a two-fisted punch that almost sends his own body reeling as well, but it _does_ knock the fucker out cold. And there’s suddenly silence.

He breathes. Air howling into his lungs, and he turns, choking as he vomits onto the floor. It takes a moment, and then he straightens. Staggers slightly, but makes it to Fatboy. The keys are in the third pocket he tries and he’s cursing madly, muttering under his breath as he limps across to find Sam and hold him, hands patting skin and just talking a mile a minute, words spitting out between heaving breaths as he tells himself that it’s all okay, that Sam’s alive, that he is too, that –

“Dean... Dean!”

“Oh. Yeah. Are you okay?” He blinks up, frowns.

“Dean, come on… please. The key. Dean!”

Down. Yeah. He can’t reach the cuffs. But there’s a chair, and Dean drags it over, climbs up as if it’s eight foot high, fingers ramming into the D-ring to stop himself falling as the room spins. But somehow he keeps hold of the key, and it slips sweetly into the lock, turns so he can unsnap the metal from around Sam’s bruised wrists and Sam groans as his arms drop, but he stands on his own and doesn’t fall, which is great. Sure is.

Dean stumbles from the chair, but Sammy has him. He laughs then, because they’re holding each other up and _man_ it’s freaky, the look in Sammy’s eyes just before he grabs him and pulls him into an embrace that’s more than comfort, it’s forgiveness and understanding and grace, like incense in church, the warm hands on his bare skin like a blessing. And the laughter turns into something else, something he’s not quite sure about so he pulls away, saying gruffly, “Sam, come on, we need to be in the next county like yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

His hands are unsteady as he tucks himself away, zips up. Sam retrieves Dean’s clothing and he pulls it on, piece by piece, until he’s dressed. They’re both a mess, but hell, the town’s undoubtedly seen worse.

As they step through the door, Sam pauses, looks back with his lips in a tight line. Then he looks at Dean and smiles, pretty much without humor. “Thanks.”

“No problem…”

“I thought you might say that.” 

But as he turns, Dean sees questions in Sam’s worried eyes. Questions he’s not sure he can answer. And the euphoria just evaporates, because at some point there are things he needs to share. Things he never thought he would with anyone. Not even his brother. Even though he knows that his brother loves him, unequivocally. At least, he hopes it’s unequivocally. Because otherwise, he’s fucked. Well and truly.


End file.
